


soar

by picturelyuniverse



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dalton Academy, Hurt Blaine, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Protective Sebastian Smythe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturelyuniverse/pseuds/picturelyuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[canon divergent one-shot where Blaine transfers back to Dalton, Sebastian is mostly reformed but he and Sebastian are roommates yet decidedly not-boyfriends because Sebastian doesn’t do relationships] Not that Sebastian doesn’t appreciate getting to see Blaine’s ass a little closer to eye level, but he has always held the belief that Blaine loves jumping and dancing on furniture a little too much for his own good; it’s basically an accident waiting to happen. </p><p>Well, and then during one Warbler practice, the Accident happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	soar

**Author's Note:**

> hey, i'm back with another seblaine fic! a one-shot that really, really got away from me but still, enjoy! please bear with me if there are any medical inaccuracies (all the research i have done is limited to the wonderful, all-powerful search engine google).

Blaine Devon Anderson is a fucking bird.

He was most certainly born as a bird in his past life, a hyperactive bird that sings with a voice like honey and hops from branch to branch and probably threw himself off the tree the moment right after he hatched from his egg.

A goddamn bird.

There can be no other explanation for him finding the need to leap onto the side table when doing a dance number, practically soaring from couch to couch at times.

Sometimes Sebastian wishes he still is the Captain so he can demand that Blaine stop his bird-boy act right now and get off the damn furniture because of completely legitimate reasons i.e it is distracting the other Warblers who are already trying their damnedest not to get their legs tangled up into a pretzel. He’ll probably manage to get him to plant his two feet on the ground like a normal human being for an entire practice, tops. Then Blaine will probably get right on with his bird imitation the very next practice and should Sebastian so much as even up the stare of his intensity just a notch, Blaine will bring out the puppy eyes and where does that leave him?

Not that the current Captain seems to be doing anything about it. If anything, Clarington just seems amused by Blaine’s energy and impromptu furniture parkour. _Seriously, what the hell?_ Clarington has been whipping their asses into shape, military-style, ever since he got here. Everything has been about precision, power, sharp movements, synchronisation and smooth transitions. He hates people messing up moves or not doing shit the way he wants them to. Which part of that screams ‘I’ll let a pocket-sized boy prance all over the furniture’?

Recently, he does notice that Clarington eyeing Blaine a little too often, an edge in his gaze that is a little too keen to mean nothing. Sebastian feels the inane urge to tell Clarington to fuck off and well, that is a whole different string of problems right there.

Nobody else seems to understand how they should absolutely be trying to get Blaine off the furniture and not indulging him. What the hell is wrong with everybody?

Fine, he admits that the view gets pretty good sometimes, especially when he has the good fortune of being in Blaine’s vicinity when Blaine hops onto a piece of furniture of suitable height, hence putting his glorious ass on full display (and wow, he doesn’t even have to crane his neck like he normally does though that is part of the fun too, when Blaine realises why he’s craning his neck like so and gets all hot and bothered). He would just rather not feel like he’s the one constantly on the edge, hoping that this time will not be the time that Blaine misses a step or trips over the arm of the couch and goes tumbling down.

And that’s the problem! He can’t even appreciate the best ass in all of Ohio without worrying that its owner will someday suddenly crash to the ground and Blaine Anderson –

“— will you stop that? You’re not a fucking bird!”

He absolutely refuses to believe that his voice has grown a little shrill at the end of the sentence. He’s just annoyed, alright?

To Blaine’s credit, he barely misses a beat, managing to execute a passable spin on the polished oak side table that probably needs a heck load of polishing later, though his smile slips off his face for a fraction of a second.

Most of the rest of the Warblers, though, turn to look curiously as a result of his outburst. The more senior Warblers manage to look over without messing up their moves too much but most of the new additions are obviously not keeping to the beat anymore. Fine, maybe it isn’t one of his best ideas to interrupt one of Clarington’s Draining Dance Drills because Clarington himself is staring so hard at him (and not in a good way, although Clarington is most definitely bi-curious) that he can practically feel himself starting to vapourise.

“Interesting as it is to see your blatant fascination with Anderson, I don’t think we have the luxury of time for it,” Clarington drawls, his tone the sheer epitome of friendliness.

And then Clarington slips into one of his talks about the need for sheer, hard discipline (and wow, if that isn’t an innuendo right there, he doesn’t know what is) and “if we’re going to crush the other teams at Regionals, we need to get the moves right”. In the end, the Warblers are made to stay an extra hour to run through the entire gruelling routine four more times. And if some of the Warblers give him the tad of a stink-eye as they file out of the room, half-dead on their feet, Sebastian pretends not to notice and almost flips the bird at them but manages to keep it in the confines of his mind (partially because he really, really is trying to settle into his new, reformed version but also because he is practically running on auto-pilot now). 

He is barely out of the room when he hears the pitter-patter of feet drawing up behind him.

“What was that?” Sebastian thinks he hears a steely, dangerous edge to Blaine’s voice that is beginning to sound unnervingly like the Blaine who had been just recovering from a rock salt slushie to the eye. He still hasn’t quite managed to think about that incident without feeling like complete and utter shit (and some days, he clings on a little tighter to the guilt because he really, really doesn’t deserve to get off scot-free). That might have to do with his sudden outburst during the practice, but also probably a little to do with how he thinks he caught glimpse of Blaine when he was crowding a freshie into one of those useful nooks and crannies littered around Dalton corridors.

“Hey, Killer. What was what?” he greets Blaine with a quirked eyebrow and a crooked smile, very pointedly noticing how Blaine is determinedly trying to fight the blush that is rising to his cheeks.

“Dumb is not a good look on you,” Blaine all but manages to get out.

“Oh, then what is? Do tell.”

There is a pause, and then Blaine makes an utterly, utterly exasperated noise at the back of his throat and marches off as fast as those adorably short legs of his can carry him. If not for the fact that Sebastian is feeling magnanimous today, he could have easily eaten up the distance between them with a few long strides but he figures he owes Blaine some modicum of dignity, after the embarrassing interruption during the practice (but he’s still not sorry that he’s trying to get Blaine to curb his love for indoor parkour) and alright, maybe he’s a little apologetic for that stupid tryst with the freshie, if you can even call a three-minute make-out session with an inexperienced youngling who was definitely trying too hard a tryst. 

And now he has to go back to his dorm room with a huffy Blaine that is most certainly going to give him the cold shoulder.

It definitely wasn’t worth it; the freshie was probably only a 3, tops.

* * *

Blaine is decidedly **not** talking to his roommate.

He is also decidedly **not** looking at his roommate. His roommate who has gotten out of the shower ten minutes ago but still has not shown the slightest inclination to put on a damn shirt. And he doubts that his pants actually qualify as pants (after all, if they fail to serve the function of hanging on one’s hips at an appropriate level, well, definitely disqualified).

Well, screw him. (He mentally backpedals about fifty miles because whoa, that’s one train of thought he would rather not go down. Even though he’s pretty sure that all the flirting and stolen glances between them ought to mean something and isn’t there that one time right after he broke up with Kurt and got really, really wasted that he’s fairly certain they made out, at the very least? There might have had been a few intimate moments involved, along with coffee not-dates.)

If Sebastian “Asshole” Smythe ( _huh, what **is** his actual middle name?_ ) thinks he can just worm his way under his skin, make out with other boys in decrepit corners andtell him what to do during dance routines, well, he’s got another thing coming. Oh hell. All this exposure to said asshole has made him begin to churn out innuendos (albeit unknowingly, but still, he actually notices he makes them now) like a pro.

He likes jumping on furniture, alright. It makes him feel on top of the world and perhaps a little more like his former Warbler self, before his relationship with his Kurt had turned into a train wreck, heck, before he even had said ex-boyfriend. Also, it doesn’t hurt that it gives him a higher vantage point than he is usually (grudgingly) accustomed to.

Blaine sighs, gives the back of his roommate who is still bending over at his desk like something out of a terrible gay porno (not that he would know what those look like, pssh) a last cursory glance before flopping onto his bed without so much as a ‘good night’.

* * *

Another day, another Warbler practice, another gravity-defying performance by Blaine Anderson, trapeze artist extraordinaire with a death wish.

It’s another of Clarington’s totalitarian dance practices. Sebastian has woken up this morning feeling like crap and that’s saying something because he once woke up in a dingy toilet with a migraine the size of Russia and some dubious substance caked on his left cheek. It’s because he has had a shitty and draining lacrosse practice yesterday and he’s practically drowning in his work a little more than usual (Dalton curriculum, what’s new). Well, also because his roommate has not been talking to him for the past 2.5 days and who knew Blaine had that in him?

And what could make his morning absolutely better? Said roommate persisting with his madcap endeavour of gracing each and every piece of furniture in the practice room with the soles of his feet. Again.

“Why the long face, Smythe?” Clarington questions with a knowing smirk, sidling up to Sebastian (who is most certainly not sulking!) during one of his stipulated fifty seconds rest breaks ( “Can’t dance with broken legs now, can we?”). 

Sebastian feel this incredible urge to tell him to fuck off (again) and thank whatever deity actually bothers to smile down on this godforsaken world, because just as his restraint is beginning to waver (and yes, he really, really will love to swear at Clarington’s smug, asshole face because he recognises another asshole when he sees one, takes one to know one, y’know, but at least he’s trying to be less of an asshole while Clarington is obviously just getting started), the fifty seconds are up and they’re back to trying to break a leg (literally).

He swears the deity he just expressed his grudging gratitude for is an ungrateful son of a bitch because everything starts to go downhill from there. He doesn’t literally break a leg but he’s pretty sure he came pretty close. Clarington pretty much jacks up the complexity and intensity of the dance drills.

And then, the next moment pretty much takes the cake for being the worst fucking moment of the day, possibly the month, or the year, or maybe his life.

He’s trying his damnedest to get the “tap tap” of his shoes against the ground to absolutely obliterate Clarington’s ears (“just a little harder, Smythe” well screw you too, Clarington) when out of the corner of his eye (fine, maybe he does try to keep an eye on his stupid roommate every now and then), he sees Blaine stumble backward.

Blaine has been particularly adamant on his flyboy act for the whole practice, making risky jumps from the couch to the side table. Today, his every single twirl and spin has been executed with reckless abandon and an edge of defiance.

There is a beat in which everything happens with slow, painful clarity.

Amidst the muted sounds of the rest of the practice room – the mostly synchronised “tap tap” of shoes, the Warbler’s unobtrusive humming, Clarington’s commanding drawl, he hears the soft “whoosh” of breath knocked out of Blaine, a soft noise of surprise (jarringly like the sound he makes when Sebastian nudges him awake in the mornings, all sleep-rumpled curls and bleary eyes); he sees honey-hazel eyes widen infinitesimally.

Another beat. A loud thump.

Blaine’s on the floor.

_It was dark. Emotions were running high on both sides; the faces from the New Directions ranged from stony to outright outrage, the Warblers all sharp movements and neutral faces._

_It’s time, he remembers thinking._

_He barely took note of which Warbler handed him the paper bag. In a moment, the cup was in his hands and he was uncapping it, hands sure and steady._

_The stream of orange-red almost hit its mark, but not quite._

_A beat. A loud thump._

_Blaine fell to the floor._

_His mind was a litany of “nonononotBlaine” and “ Ifuckedup” as, in a strange, disjointed moment of mind-body disconnection, he stares dispassionately down at the writhing, groaning figure before him, the slushie contents a gradually growing pool around him._

There is a moment of stunned silence, in which all that can be heard is a pained keening sound.

Then, the room erupts into a flurry of frenzied movements, anxious cries and general chaos. He dimly hears Clarington bark at someone to “fucking call an ambulance now!”

Sebastian is probably the first to break out of it. He finds himself scrambling to Blaine’s side, his body moving before his mind even is aware of it. The shorter boy has shifted, in his haze of pain, to lie curled up on his side. His eyes are squeezed shut, a faint sheen of tears gathering on his eyelashes, breath rapid and shallow.

“Shit, Blaine,” Sebastian breathes, for the third time in his life feeling utterly helpless and afraid. His hands hover uncertainly over the motionless figure. Somehow, the stillness is infinitely worse than thrashing, screaming, **anything**.  

Hours later, as he is sitting by Blaine’s bedside, he is still trying to shake off the residual tendrils of terror that has taken root in the pits of his stomach, to steady the mad stutter in his chest.

* * *

Blaine is a bird.

Except he doesn’t fly, he cannot fly. Not anymore.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong. Are his wings broken? Has someone snipped off all of his flight feathers? Has someone immobilised him?

He feels hands holding him down and then lifting him up. Suddenly, a bright supernova of pain flares out. He vaguely registers a babble of voices in the background but he needs the damn supernova to leave him alone. Please. _Let me go_ , he tries to plead, _stop the pain, please?_ He hears someone whimpering. Is that him? He doesn’t know for sure.

He doesn’t know if he is imagining the gentle, trembling fingers carding through his hair as he feels his vision begin to grey at the edges.

* * *

 

When Blaine comes to, he feels like his ass is on fire.

He feels groggy and well, obviously in pain. Where the hell is he? What happened to Warbler practice? He remembers stumbling from his perch on his favourite side table, an exceedingly trippy transformation into a bird, pain radiating from his lower back and then, nothing.

He opens his eyes just a sliver and immediately hears a sharp intake of breath (hopefully of relief and not shock because he has somehow become a giant naked bird or something).

“Hey, Killer,” comes the familiar greeting, although it sounds just a tad tenser than usual.

He has not a damn clue where the rest of the Warblers are but wow, he has never been happier to see those pair of gold-flecked green eyes in his entire life. He prepares to throw a greeting back in return, something suitably flippant to lighten the atmosphere, along the lines of “Hey yourself” ( _too sultry?_ ) or maybe “Hello, Bas” ( _too intimate? He hasn’t called him that since before the slushie incident_ ). He ends up with a muffled “mmmfmmmg” that doesn’t sound like either option, or anything remotely resembling a greeting at all.

He feels a warm hand clasp his, though, fingers rubbing soothing circles over the back of his hand.

“Hello, Mr Anderson, is it? How are you feeling?”

Blaine barely manages to stop himself from scrunching up his nose at the unfamiliar voice. He squints a little, as a man in white doctor’s garb walks into his field of vision. The rubbing abruptly ceases but resumes again when he twitches his hand a tad anxiously. He may or may not also have whined a little.

The man peers downward at him (not that he isn’t used to it, but still, _ouch_ ), continuing on in that quiet voice of his, “It appears from what your friends described when you were brought in that you fell backward when you were standing on a side table? A few of them said you impacted the ground in a seated position. I would say that it’s likely that you suffered trauma to your coccyx and judging from the amount of pain you’re in, possibly a fracture. Well, I would rather err on the side of caution and go through with a physical examination anyway, just to be certain.”

Blaine swears that Sebastian must have had a direct telepathic link into his head because the other boy immediately questions the doctor as to what the physical examination will entail.

“Well, to be short and sweet – let’s not prolong this young gentleman’s pain— basically, I will have to insert a finger into the rectum and gently probe around the area of the coccyx.”    

_What. The. Hell._

Blaine detects a dangerous edge in Sebastian’s voice when he asks, “Aren’t there other less intrusive ways of determining the site of injury?”

_Telepathic. Definitely telepathic._

However, at the increasingly real prospect of a stranger literally sticking a finger up his ass, he feels the beginnings of panic rise up within him. He has got to convey the message clearly (preferably in giant neon red and green letters) that he really, really doesn’t want – nor does he need – a rectal examination ( _foreigntouchcolddiscomfortpain_ ). He opens his mouth to loudly and firmly proclaim that no, he does not wish to have a rectal examination, thank you very much, but obviously he must be pretty out of it because what comes out instead is a slurred plea, “ ‘bastian, tell ‘em, don wanna finger in my ass, pleassssse?”

He dimly hears a strained huff of laughter and then the sound of voices conversing rather furiously out of his tiny sliver of vision (wait, mostly because his eyes are half-shut but he kind of doesn’t want to open them because he doesn’t feel too up to it yet).

“Look, if he doesn’t fucking want a rectal examination, he has the right to object.”

“Please calm down and listen, Sebastian – can I call you Sebastian, or would you prefer Mr Smythe?”

A pregnant pause and then, rather curtly, “I told you, Sebastian’s fine.”

“Right. Sebastian, is Mr, uh,” a pause in which one can imagine the doctor ( _yes, the voice is indeed very doctor-ly_ ) is looking down at a clipboard of some sort, “Anderson, your boyfriend?”

An even longer pause, and then, very hesitantly (and isn’t that weird because Blaine has never, ever thought of using ‘Sebastian Smythe’ and ‘hesitant’ in the same sentence before), “Yes, he is.”

 _Huh. I am?_  

Hazy memories – fingers fluttering at his jawline, the urgent grasp of hands against his hips and the sweet press of lips ( _CourvoisiermintSebastian_ ) against his – float, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind. But that had happened in an alcohol-driven haze (at least he was sure he was eighty-percent drunk, wait or is it that he was eighty-percent sure that he was drunk) and they hadn’t even made it past nipping at each other’s lips and maybe a little light groping before Sebastian gripped him by his forearms in a clear sign to stop and all but carried him back to their dorm room. And then there are those heated, undecipherable  glances Sebastian is so fond of shooting him over cups of coffee as they ramble on about one thing or another. So what if Sebastian knows his coffee order (medium drip is common knowledge but he’s a secret sucker for cinnamon, of which he gets no end of teasing from Sebastian), or if he gets up and drapes an extra blanket over him on colder nights, or if he lets him get away with ‘borrowing’ his Dalton lacrosse hoodie now and then? He’s pretty sure that doesn’t constitute boyfriends, does it?

The hard edge to Sebastian’s voice returns with a vengeance, “How is that of any concern to this?” The unspoken “how the hell does this concern **you** ” is clear in the deafening silence that follows his waspish reply.

A sigh, and then, “Perhaps it might be better to wait until we can reach his emergency contact.”

Blaine groans. This is going to take a while.

He almost flops onto his back and only just remembers not to.

* * *

 

In the end, Blaine’s mother does come down, the very picture of worry. He remembers the door banging open dramatically (like in one of those action movies complete with guns blazing, dashing badass heroes and lots of explosions that he knows Cooper not-so-secretly enjoys), his mother striding into the room, eyes alight with panic, probably at the thought that her baby boy is once again put in hospital for likely unsavoury and terrible reasons. She probably imagines he will be mummified by bandages and whatnot like after the Sadie Hawkins dance (fine, that isn’t very fair of him but it’s probably the pain making him snappish and wow, that’s one memory lane he will never, ever choose to go down of his own volition).

There is a stretch of time between his mother arriving and “shit actually getting done” (ah yes, Sebastian’s eloquence is astounding sometimes, considering how much of his silver tongue he usually wields), though. Basically, because there is a prospect of a potential rectal examination, he’s not been allowed to be on any strong painkillers (although he genuinely feels that the pain might just go ahead and off him before he can get any of the strong stuff) because being doped up on painkillers and having someone probe about at a possible injury site is just redundant.

He really tries to be a little more chipper. He does. Blaine Anderson is normally chipper as hell. But the fact that he can’t sleep on his back and constantly has to be propped on one side with minimal movement gets old real quick.

Sebastian tries to engage him in conversation, at first, to keep his mind off the sharp edge of pain. But the lapses in conversation are getting longer and he doesn’t have to be telepathic to tell that Sebastian’s patience, having been tried multiple times today (mostly by the doctor), is clearly running thin.

He waits until there is another of those long silences (which he normally will fill up with some inane chatter if he were his usual self) before blurting out, “Maybe you should go.”

Green eyes flick up to his face searchingly, the barest hint of surprise and hurt in his gaze before his expression becomes neutral again. It makes Blaine wonder if he has imagined it.

The next moment, Sebastian is already on his feet, face shuttered.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that,” Blaine hurriedly exclaims, clenching his teeth in a soft hiss when he angles his body far too quickly in an instinctive bid to reach out to the other boy.

There is a pause, in which both boys seem to be stuck in a state of limbo, neither on sure footing.

Sebastian, surprisingly, is the first to crumble. He scrubs a hand down his face, sighing, “I can’t read minds, Killer, and much as I’d like to be able to read yours, I can’t.”

He drops back down into the hard plastic seat by his bedside wordlessly, expression still unreadable, but at least he’s no longer as ready to just up and leave the room.

Blaine has so many questions and so many answers to the questions he reckons he sees in the other boy’s gaze.

_Why did you say that I’m your boyfriend? I do cherish this thing between us, whatever it is. What are we? I really care about you._

He finally manages to settle on a single word.

“Stay?”

Sebastian’s gaze softens and his lips quirk upward into a ghost of his usual smirks.

“Of course, Killer.”

* * *

 

In the end, at Blaine’s adamant refusal and the fact that yes, his emergency contact does indeed verify and support his decision, Blaine does not have a stranger stick a finger up his ass. He goes through a series of x-rays instead which end up presenting a rather clear-cut case (thank god for small mercies). There are fractures at his coccyx but again, thankfully not severe enough to warrant a hospital stay (because that will dredge up memories he’d rather stuff into a big black box in his head) but is likely to take some time to recover completely.

Luckily for him, he has a group of very dedicated and concerned friends who are more than happy to entertain him, in a manner of words.

He has been wondering about the Warblers’ conspicuous absence ever since he regained consciousness. Long story short, the hospital staff had been continually trying to reach his emergency contact until eventually, evidently it got through to his mother. However, it is not hard to picture a group of boys making a racket in the hospital corridor, trying to find out more about their friend’s condition and eventually being told off firmly to leave the premises. How Sebastian managed to be at his bedside, Blaine still does not have a single clue. Presumably, the boys pleaded to stay and one of the kindly hospital personnel consented to letting someone stay behind to look after him.  It’s pretty natural after all for the roommate of said patient to stay behind. Not that he doesn’t imagine the Warblers fighting over who gets to be the one to stay. He’s really, really glad he has friends that actually care deeply about him.

And herein lies the difference between Dalton and McKinley. Not that no one at McKinley cares about him, it’s just that most of them are either Kurt’s friends (not his, never really his) or simply keep a distance, not unkindly but still, that doesn’t stop pangs in his heart from getting one over him when he least expects it. At Dalton, he feels that he truly fits in, like the snug slide of the Dalton blazer across his shoulders. It feels like home.

Well, he’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least he’s got company now. He glances over at the boy slouching in his seat, chin propped on closed fist. It’s not an uncomfortable silence; it might just be him (or perhaps the drugs in his system making him loopier than usual because he finds interactions with Sebastian usually akin to being caught in a crazy landslide) but there is something charged about the air that hangs over the two of them.

Blaine’s mother has finally gone out to grab a bite (after a good half-hour of fussing and a rushed trip to the hospital in the morning without any breakfast). There has been another lapse in the conversation that just grew and grew in length. Sebastian has resorted to twiddling with his phone instead, expression indecipherable again.

Blaine isn’t quite sure how to deal with a quiet Sebastian; he’s never had the need to, before. Somehow, he gets the feeling that the nonchalant act really is a defence mechanism Sebastian wields in the face of a deep-seated insecurity and incapability to confront issues concerning emotions.

Ah, there he goes, all armchair-psychologist again when, for all he knew, Sebastian is just being his usual flippant self. (Yet, a nagging voice in his head tells him to dig deeper, reminds him of warm hands encircling his and a sharp tongue wielded in his defense.)

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks lightly, eyes traitorously drifting to the other boy’s face.

Sebastian snorts but looks up from his mobile phone. Blaine – Sebastian, 1-0.

“I’m pretty sure my thoughts are worth more than that,” Sebastian responds wryly and then deadpans, “In any case, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Blaine huffs out a little breath of laughter at that.

“You can tell me anything, Bas, you know that right?”

He knows it’s not quite the right thing to say the moment it leaves his mouth. And really, where the hell did ‘Bas’ slip out from? Sebastian is gazing right into his eyes, green eyes dark with something dangerous yet calls out with the alluring familiarity of home. He feels his fingers twitch on the starched sheets; his hands feel empty without fingers, calloused from long hours of gripping onto lacrosse sticks, entwining through his.

The moment is lost soon enough.

There is no warning; an abrupt gaggle of voices and then the door is hurled open with the force of several hurricanes which in actuality, turn out to be several boys in familiar blazers piling into the room.

The room becomes a whirlwind of dark blue and red, loud admonishments and concerned “how-are-you”s. There are a few half-hearted jokes about him “really bringing down the house” and “doing some ground-breaking dance moves” that peter off in the face of stony glares (mostly from Sebastian). He doesn’t mind, really. He’s among friends. He feels safe here, a small figure in white in this familiar sea of dark blue and red.

The Warblers are unsurprisingly vocal about their concerns for his health and take turns (and sometimes, simply resorting to talking over one another or completing each other’s’ sentences) filling him in on what he has missed out on so far (which isn’t very much, aside from Hunter’s super long, super detailed monologue about safety precautions and oddly specific rant that involved “fucking make sure you’re not bedridden because we need everyone for Regionals and you can’t perform with a broken leg, got it?”). He notices that Sebastian is conspicuously quiet throughout the ‘festivities’, though, only joining in with a few offhand comments every now and then. Otherwise, he appears almost contemplative, leaning back as far as that hard, uncomfortable-looking seat allows, gaze directed almost always in Blaine’s direction. It’s almost unnerving but well, it’s Sebastian.

The visit is over far sooner than he’d have liked. After the boys are ushered out, shuffling feet and incessant waving painting the very picture of reluctance, he is told by the doctor that he doesn’t need to stay overnight. Cases like this rarely warrant hospitalisation, unless it is truly very severe. He thinks he sees his mother breathe a not-so-discreet sigh of relief. He feels a pang in his chest at the familiar nightmare his mother probably finds herself trapped in. At least this time, he’s surrounded by Warblers, Sebastian (he doesn’t quite know which box to put him in; _Warbler – too distant, roommate – too perfunctory, friend – not-quite able to encapsulate heated glances and worried hands, boyfriend – too presumptuous and tacky_ ) and less unsavoury circumstances.

He’s sent on his merry way with a ton of pain meds and a laundry list of reminders (i.e. refrain from sleeping on his back, sit on well-cushioned chairs, etc) that is pretty much constructed with common sense, really. And apparently, he’s been advised to buy a ‘doughnut cushion’ that is said to reduce contact of his injured tailbone with whatever hard surface he (crazily) tries to sit on. Sebastian has volunteered to procure one for him, one of the few words he exchanged with him under his mother’s watchful gaze.

Sebastian departs with “Hope to see you back in our room soon, Blaine”, yet with decidedly less innuendo dripping from his tone as usual. Blaine likes to think that he places greater emphasis on ‘our’ more than anything.

He doesn’t realise he has been smiling all the way home until his mother calls him out on it, brow furrowed and lips pursed decidedly far too knowingly for his comfort.

* * *

 

This must be what hell feels like.

Blaine shifts a little on his seat for probably the fifteenth time through the first-quarter of the lesson. He’s never realised how uncomfortable these chairs are. It’s been a week since the whole falling debacle and he seriously cannot live without a copious number of cushions and much as it irks him to admit it, the wretched doughnut cushion. The wretched doughnut cushion he has forgotten to bring  (he remembers getting the shock of his life at the numbers glaring out from his clock’s display screen, a mad, painful scramble and quick shuffling down the corridors to class, all the while glancing at Sebastian’s conspicuously empty bed) and damn it, these chairs are really the spawn from hell. He has two wads of rolled-up sweaters (donated kindly by Trent and Nick) supporting his lower back but he really, really needs the doughnut cushion. Contact with the seat, however cushioned, is still a terribly painful affair.

He can’t even concentrate on what the French teacher is rattling on about (or that might also be a product of his measly grasp of the language). It’s not his fault that Sebastian appears to have a far better grasp of the language than the teacher and definitely a better – dare he say, more stimulating – accent.

Stupid doughnut cushion. Stupid roommate who can’t be bothered to wake him up before he leaves for his stupid morning run. Just because said roommate doesn’t have an early-morning class. Stupid Sebastian.

And wow, speak of the devil, the door opens just a crack and a familiar face peers into the room. Then, without waiting for the teacher’s acknowledgement, Sebastian squeezes his way into the room, charming smirk on full force as he saunters lazily up to the teacher’s desk.

He exchanges a few hushed words with her before raising his voice, clearly meaning for the class to hear, “Apologies, Mademoiselle, but my roommate gets really forgetful sometimes. Guess it’s a blessing that I’m around to jog his memory every now and then, or at least, jog after him, huh?”

That bastard even has the gall to quirk his eyebrow, eyes gleaming with amusement. Blaine feels the tell-tale wash of heat suffuse his cheeks. He wishes he hasn’t been wishing so damn hard for his doughnut cushion. What sort of name is ‘doughnut cushion’ anyway?

Blaine figures he should have expected it, seeing as how Sebastian is basically every French teacher’s dream student. A quick rapid-fire exchange of French later and the French teacher is resuming her lesson as if nothing has occurred, the only difference being Sebastian sliding into the coincidentally empty seat beside him. Instantly, he feels Sebastian’s thigh settling just next to his, the reassuring slide of a blazer-clad forearm warmly pressing against his.

He tunes out his French teacher’s ramblings in favour of surreptitiously tilting his head towards Sebastian who has been insistently tapping an erratic rhythm on his forearm with a finger for the past few seconds. 

“Hey, you doing OK?”

He has been expecting a snarky comment or something heavy with innuendo but that’s nice too. More than nice, in fact. Blaine finds himself ducking his head a little self-consciously.

“Yeah, I – ” Blaine barely has the chance to craft a coherent reply before plunging straight into an ungraceful squawk as he feels probing fingers flutter along his right hip, just skating above the curve of his ass. He supposes he should have been expecting that but _really, Sebastian_?

“Shh,” Sebastian actually shushes him, fingers still clutching at his hip, mirth colouring his voice as he snarks, “Relax, Killer, I’m not doing this to cop a feel, at least, that’s not what I first set out to do.”

Blaine splutters. He is seriously beginning to question Sebastian’s motive for sitting in for this French lesson.

“C’mon, lift your hips, don’t let me do all the work here,” Sebastian teases.

Blaine actually, honest-to-god chokes on air. He cooperates, though (or perhaps he’s just been stunned into submission).

He feels the familiar press of the cushion and a long wash of relief as the dull pain radiating from his lower back recedes further into the background.

Yet, he feels a soft smile threatening to spread across his face.

Let it be known that Blaine Anderson is nothing if not polite. He bumps the other boy’s shoulder, a hesitant “Thanks, Bas” muttered under his breath. If he does nothing but lean a little into Sebastian’s touch when the taller boy slings an arm loosely around his torso, well, perhaps he’s just feeling a tad embarrassed by his over-reaction moments ago.

* * *

 

“Rough night?” Sebastian idly comments as he pauses in the midst of throwing on a Dalton lacrosse hoodie.

The heap on the other bed makes little movement except a muffled noise of protest. His roommate is curled into a foetal position on his bed, sheets strewn haphazardly. From what he can glean (furrowed brow, dark eye-bags, messy curls and clenched jaw), his roommate hasn’t had a good night’s rest in a while. With a back injury like that… Sebastian can’t help but wince in sympathy. He’s had plenty of injuries in his short lifetime, mostly from lacrosse, a few from his more adventurous days of boyhood. 

It’s healing up pretty well; otherwise, he’d bet the Smythe fortune on it that Mrs Anderson wouldn’t even have let Blaine set foot out of his house, much less return to his dorm room.

There’s only one way to solve this conundrum and yes, ease his roommate’s pain and discomfort.

Oh, how far the apple has fallen from the Smythe tree. It’s almost laughable trying to imagine his ice king of a father attempting to go out of his way for someone else, after all.

Sebastian drops himself down on the edge of Blaine’s bed, giving his arm a gentle nudge.

“Mm, go away, you’re not helping,” comes the sleepy, tetchy reply.

He’d venture to call Blaine cute if he isn’t so concerned (also, concerned that if he voiced up just how adorable he looks, he’ll be evicted out of the room quicker than he can say “Hey, Killer”).

“Y’know,” Sebastian drawls, “I’m not averse to offering my services.”

It’s only after the words leave his mouth that he realises just how suggestive that sounds. Apparently, it is crystal-clear to Blaine.

“Not in the mood for your inn’ndos, Bas,” Blaine slurs irritably.

At least he isn’t actively swatting away Sebastian’s hands which have, unconsciously, begun to card through Blaine’s bedhead curls.

“Look, just hear me out alright, Killer?” Sebastian sighs. “Anyone with eyes can see that you’re having trouble sleeping. Tossing and turning about in the middle of the night with that kind of injury? Probably not a bed of roses. Also, I’m willing to bet that the painkillers don’t take the full edge off the pain sometimes.”

There is a distinctly unimpressed silence, then an imperious “Go on”.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. The things he does for this honey-eyed boy.

“What I’m suggesting is that we try out another sleeping arrangement, namely, I’ll sleep behind you so you don’t move about that much in your sleep.”

Now, **that** apparently warrants a reaction. Blaine actually pops his head out of his fort of white sheets to squint at him, dislodging his blankets. A rolled-up hoodie with the curling edges of a ‘D’ and the beginnings of the word ‘lacrosse’ peeks out from beneath all that white. Sebastian has to suppress the insane urge to break out into an honest-to-god smile; he can’t help but picture Blaine nosing at it in his sleep.

Sebastian will never admit to resorting to wheedling, but he comes close.

“C’mon, tomorrow’s a Saturday which means we get to sleep in so we can afford to take the time to revert back to our usual sleeping arrangements in the middle of the night if you find that it’s not helping you. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

He can see that Blaine’s resolve is wavering.

 “Or if you’re truly worried, I solemnly swear to keep it absolutely PG, hands above the waist and all,” Sebastian drops his voice, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly, his expression the picture of innocence.

Blaine actually laughs, the sound of pure honey dribbling through the air, as he makes to throw a pillow at Sebastian.

 _Score. Blaine – Sebastian, 0-1._ Yet, Sebastian doesn’t really feel like a triumphant victor as he watches the other boy from the corner of his eye, mouth suddenly dry and an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

He’s just helping out a friend in need, nothing more. A very attractive, very beautiful boy that happens to be his best friend, he mentally adds. (Somehow, unknowingly along the line, from the first time he met that honey-hazel gaze, notes of ‘Uptown Girl’ warbling out of his throat, to this current comfortable familiarity, the precarious tilt between roommates, friends and something more still undetermined, Sebastian has actually become acquainted with the concept of even having a best friend.)

* * *

He’s lying on his side but why not on his bac – _oW FUCKING HELL OW_ _holy crap that’s why._ Thank god for the cushion behind him. The very human cushion, in fact. That definitely explains the nice warm heat seeping into his back.

He spends a good minute not freaking out about the fact that there’s a body behind him when he usually sleeps alone and _holy crap, is the guy half naked?_

“Relax, just think of me as nothing more but your friendly human cushion,” a familiar voice murmurs into his ear, hot breath ghosting over the shell of his ear.

Ah. It all comes flooding back to him. The initial awkwardness as both Sebastian and he shift and scramble to find the most optimal position ( _oh god, that sounded really inappropriate_ ), Sebastian’s apologies (an unrepentant “Sorry, Killer, you don’t mind if I sleep without a shirt, do you?” and a much gentler “Sorry in advance if I accidentally brush against your injury site in the night but I’ll promise to be careful ”) and then practically melting into the warm cocoon ( _softwarmSebastiansafetyhome_ ).

 Sebastian Smythe is actually spooning him. Never has it ever crossed his mind that the other boy is actually capable of being so gentle and careful or actually willing to engage in **cuddling**.

“Sorry,” Blaine whispers back, feeling the beginnings of a blush spread down his neck.

Blaine **feels** the other boy chuckle; the vibrations from Sebastian’s chest, the soft puff of air across the top of his head and the brush of skin against his.

“Go back to sleep, Killer,” Sebastian sighs into his curls, sleep roughening his voice, “I’ll be here.”

Blaine lets himself close his eyes and for once, even in the dark, he feels like he’s flying, his vision clear, the sweep of his wings strong and sure as he instinctively seeks out the thrum of the other boy’s heartbeat against his back.

* * *

Blaine Anderson is a bird and he’s soaring.

A scant few feathers away, another soars next to him, circling, feathers kissing his, just so. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> when i had this idea, i didn't exactly picture 7k+ words, more along the lines of a 2-3k+ short one-shot. *sheepish* as you can probably already tell, i'm a huge sucker for hurt!blaine (because we always end up loving hurting the characters we love the most, for some sad reason), the whole dalton!au thing, sebastian showing his inner-softie and basically, just seblaine in general. now, back to actually churning out stuff for my other multi-chapter fic! as always, i'm open to concrit, so feel free to drop a comment (*acts nonchalant but am actually nervously sweating*)!


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